


Abnemen

by Rhinocio



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Bisexual Duck, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:07:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23068984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhinocio/pseuds/Rhinocio
Summary: There are several things about the situation he's in that Duck has to fight against - his nerves, the awkward positioning, and the ever-ferocious demands of culturally-defined masculinity rise like giants in the path of his quest. Luckily for him, he's heading into the fray with a partner who knows battle... and will protect his dignity.
Relationships: Minerva/Duck Newton
Comments: 18
Kudos: 105





	Abnemen

**Author's Note:**

> Abnemen: [A German swordfighting term](https://www.quora.com/What-are-some-terms-in-sword-fighting), meaning "to move away or free yourself from a bind and make another attack".
> 
> For all that the fandom says "Duck Newton Gets Pegged" I've yet to see an instance of it. I'm contributing to the correction this deficit with a gentle toes-in-the-water approach. As always, comments and critiques are always welcome and appreciated!

Duck has found himself in plenty of compromising positions over the years. He’d once gotten himself wrapped up in an alien light cocoon and probed for memories – that was near the top of the list. When he was eight, he’d been beaned in the face with the ball hockey projectile after someone’d yelled “DUCK!” and he’d done the opposite, and it had sent him stumbling down into the scaffolding of the school bleachers. The sick wipeout he’d done one summer into the basement of the Amnesty Lodge had been another embarrassing instance, though Ned had nearly peed himself laughing at the sight, so that had sort of balanced it out. The fact that Duck is sturdy has probably spared him greater injury than his pride, but the point is, he’s been in plenty of situations where the only option has been to grin (or grimace) and bear it.

Posed face down and butt naked with his ass in the air is very quickly climbing to the top of the scoreboard, though.

“Wayne?” comes a gentle voice from behind him, and the foreign sensation around said ass in the air stops, which would probably be a blessing if it didn’t mean that now Duck is even more aware of the pose he’s in and the fact that it’s the most mortifying of his life, and that her fingers are still inside him, which is frankly even weirder than the gentle back and forth she was doing before and– “You keep going tense. Should I stop?”

To the great relief of his strangled vocal chords, Minerva removes herself with only his silence as a prompt. The palm that smoothes down his backside is gentle and warm, and helps give him something else to focus on besides feeling exposed. She traces slow patterns along the back of his thighs, and goosebumps raise along the skin, chasing the heat of her touch like sunflowers turning towards the last rays of dusk. He startles as Minerva’s lips press to his hip.

“You are uncomfortable,” she observes, and Duck sighs into the pillow of his arms. Her fingers run over the nape of his neck and up around his earlobe, tugging gently at the shape of it; fresh heat blooms through his body under the contact. A shudder skitters across his back as Minerva pulls just firmly enough on the shell of his ear to have his head tilting up. She brushes at the side of his jaw, mussing the beard hair there.

“Just– yeah,” Duck grunts, feeling shy both at her callout and the gentle caressing. If there’s anything he’s still surprised by after the years they’ve been together, it’s the tenderness with which Minerva treats him in bed. He’d initially assumed she’d be much rougher given her strength, but she’s always so cautious with his limits. “It’s, uh– you’re fine, just– it’s fuckin’ weird.”

“If your interest has changed, this need not continue,” she says, and her hand skids through his hair, alternately tugging and pushing. Duck rolls with the movement, lulled by the course she’s setting. The roughness against his scalp sends shudders down his spine and has him leaning back up into the movement, seeking more attention. That’s the irony of this, of course – Duck is very decidedly into the way things are going, and into giving his partner control over how this round of sex goes down, but god, if he isn’t dying of embarrassment.

“Nah, isn’t– isn’t that, Minnie,” he replies, neck arching back; her fingers hook around his cheek and trace his lips, and he takes the opportunity to kiss them in their passing. The palm still resting on his thigh gives a firm squeeze as Minerva hums thoughtfully, and pinches slightly where her nails dig in. 

Duck is less alarmed by the way she suddenly grabs his shoulder and twists him around than he probably should be, and goes with the momentum. Minerva grips under his knees and reorients his legs before he’s even considered untangling himself; his back has barely hit the pillows when the firm arcs of her hipbones are pressing into his behind. She rolls her thighs upward experimentally, as if she’s checking the bare distance between them, and Duck bites down a groan at the sight. His legs are spread to either side of her waist, and her hands are hooked around them like iron beams, pressing them to her with an unrelenting grip.

Duck once thought there was a sardonicism to his former mentor being named after a goddess, but now he suspects the choice (or coincidence) was apt – Minerva is a bronze statue of athletic excellence and perfect posture. The rolling musculature of her arms meet delicately at a fine curve of collarbone, and the long expanse of her chest shines in the low light like fragile clouds of ice on a dark windowpane. There are deep shadows where the firm muscle of her stomach supports her ribs, and then the softest, most adorable padding of fat below her navel. She looks down at him with half-lidded, strikingly blue eyes, head tilted as if he were something weak and she the carnivore considering how best to hunt him.

But the soft upturn of her full lips chases away the coolness in her expression, and when she dips to kiss him and their bodies press together Duck can’t help reaching up and cradling her jaw like he’s worthy of the touch. Her chest expands with her deep inhale, and as the air sweeps down into her abdomen it presses the softness of her belly against his cock; Duck moans against her tongue, the thrill of the impending dismantling his composure.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” she demands, tugging at his lip with her teeth. Her palms sweep up his sides and down again, and Duck tries to steady himself with the familiar motion. It’s soothing and arousing all at once. He brushes at the sharp curves of her cheekbones with his thumbs, and she rests her forehead to his. “It was you who suggested this, dear one.”

“Yeah,” he concedes, smile flickering at the pet name.

“Have you changed your mind?” Minerva asks, kissing his nose. “I thought you were adamant about letting me fill you up as you have done for me.”

It’s a simplification of a larger and longer debate they’d had on the subject, after a difference in cultural norms had left Duck fumbling for a way to explain himself to Minerva’s incredulous expression and startled, “Is this not something humans do?” when last they’d fooled around. There was no denying the positive way he’d reacted to the touch then, and the curiosity that dug at him in the aftermath, but the idea of letting his partner peg him is still nervewracking for all its novelty.

Duck tilts his head away and presses a palm over the blush he can feel rapidly flaring across his cheeks like an acid spill. The shaky breath that strains out of his lungs reverberates back at him through the cave walls his fingers make. Minerva nudges through the barrier with her nose and kisses along his cheeks and jaw, as if commending each new blotch of heat under his skin. Her arms barricade his shoulders as she leans forward far enough to kiss under his ear, and Duck can’t help tilting his head to allow her more room. Shivers scatter down from each point she presses her lips, and he can feel her grinning against his pulse as the flick of her tongue sends him squirming.

“Call it a mental block,” he manages, breath hitching. Duck traces Minerva’s ribs with the flats of his fingers, and then the arch where they meet her sternum. He takes gentle handfuls of her breasts where gravity has left them hanging in invite; his thumbs appreciatively trace over her nipples, and she groans in delight. The soft kissing at his throat grows sharper as her teeth join in. “This isn’t, like– I dunno what the fuck I’m doin’. Ain’t somethin’ you hear about a lot of– nng, fuck, Minerva– most guys don’t do this, right? S’just weird.”

“Why does it matter what ‘most guys’ are doing, Wayne Newton?” 

“Doesn’t, I guess,” Duck shrugs, the apathy in his voice choked off when Minerva licks up the side of his throat and catches his earlobe in her teeth. His entire body trembles, arcing with the motion and sending his hips into awkward cants towards hers. There’s very little for him to gain traction on given how he’s sprawled over her lap. It occurs to Duck that maybe this position as a whole is strange, and that he should be more concerned with the enjoyment he feels over being manipulated like a rag doll – maybe it’s this vulnerability that he’s still struggling to mentally accept. His partner is taller and stronger than him, and fully capable of wrecking his shit, as demonstrated by the way Minerva gathers a fistful of his hair to pull his head even farther to the side. She seems pleased with the agonized moan her actions draw out of him, if the catlike grin on her face is any indication.

But part of it is deeper ingrained, something that’s established itself within him with all the obstinanace of a stone gargoyle on an ancient terrace, blending in so well with the scenery that he’s never before noticed its grimace. Duck has already made a sight of himself, partnering with a woman who easily has a foot and a half on him and more grace and musculature than he ever will, and for all that he adores Minerva, there’s something about submitting to her that feels wrong. His gut reaction says he should be embarrassed or insulted at the idea. Duck spent more than a few days of work walking the Monongahela's trails and turning the emotions over in his head, and had realized with some exasperation that much like his vague interest in the same sex, it was probably another case of what the world expected versus what he actually was.

“Perhaps you have not noticed,” Minerva says matter-of-factly, her free hand digging into his chest and tracing five long stripes of pressure down towards his groin, “But I am a warrior, and well-suited to breaking down barriers. Show me what mental block must be destroyed, Wayne Newton, and I will see it done.” 

Duck’s heart stutters in his chest, intimidated and wildly turned on by her threat. His hands scoop around her ears and yank her back in for a deep kiss. The infuriated gremlin of cultural masculinity screeches in his head as he decides to act against its will.

“Don’t let me think about it,” he orders when they break for air, then hauls her back in again. Whatever clever response has her lips quirked is smothered by the movement of their tongues, and the breath between them that grows more frantic. Minerva’s hand traces circles lower and lower along Duck’s body, across the expanse of his stomach and the tense muscles of his thighs, and he lets his legs fall wider in a desperate attempt to gesture for what he wants. 

She returns the earlier favour by ducking her head to lick at one of his nipples, and seems all the more egged on by the sounds Duck fails to keep contained. He drags his thumbs in uncoordinated circles around the tattoos that line her head and shoulders, and repeatedly pulls her up to bite at her lips and consume the pleased sounds she makes.

He nearly bucks the both of them off balance when her palm finally takes his cock in hand, but Minerva’s movements stay languid and patient. She drags her hand up and along it just once before tracing lower. Duck grows still in anticipation of its travels.

“Wayne,” Minerva breathes, and her blue eyes are bearing down on him with an intensity that makes him want to dive under the nearest rock. He struggles to keep his vision locked with hers, once again conscious of his posture and the compromising state she has him in. The hardness of his dick and the thrilled flipping his stomach keeps doing is sign enough that he wants her – wants to keep going, wants to see what she’s planning and take up whatever she’s offering – but mortification sits heavy on his chest and presses his inhales thin.

Minerva is already two feet into the deep end, and Duck is hovering around the shallow side of the proverbial pool. Throughout their partnership, and friendship, and antagonism before that, it’s been a familiar pattern of action for the two of them: Minerva offers something, Duck hesitates about it, and then she takes his hand and asks him to trust her. They’ve done the same song and dance for a million other reasons – the very act of them being here, of trying this together, is just another case of moon following planet, and day following night. So Duck takes a deep breath, grabs his partner’s hand, and goes with the flow. 

Minerva takes her time, and takes him carefully. Her lips meet his with bare pressure; only her tongue travels where her teeth had left his mouth tingling and swollen before. One hand runs playful trails through the overgrown scruff of his beard, across his throat and collarbones, and back up through his temples, as though it’s all a fascinating landscape of braille she’s trying to read. Her touch below does the same, testing out the space between his thighs with patience Duck can barely stand. Occasionally she traces up around his cock again, just to flash him a playful smile as he gasps.

Duck is completely at her mercy, and absolutely okay with it, for as mortified with the incoming as he continues to be. She draws his attention to wondering where next she’ll move, and how long she plans on drawing out her fondling. The moment Duck starts relaxing into her ministrations, Minerva changes pace – she lifts the both of them with an easy flex of her quads to slide her fingers into her own cunt, and between the wet sound of the motion and the long, keening moan she makes, it’s a wonder Duck doesn’t come at the sight alone. He digs his hands into the back of her neck and hauls her in to devour the noise, and in the frantic battling of their tongues barely notices the way she presses those same slick digits to him.

She pulls his chin back up as he reflexively curls, and the kisses she gathers from him are heavy and quick, as if she’s trying to suffuse his oxygen and replace it with the taste of her. Duck’s grip goes desperate on her back, pulling her closer, determined to bring his partner into yet another battle with him, one where they drive out the fear holding his muscles tense. Minerva’s arm trembles beside him as she shoves herself closer, and the stretching sensation she’s creating inside of him aches.

“Minerva,” he groans, face pressing to her shoulder as she dives to bite at his neck. She responds with pleased hums between desperate breaths, kissing her way down, and sucks at the skin of his chest until he’s certain there’s going to be a bruise. Her mouth is warm and wet, and the gentle motion she’s making inside of him is picking up momentum; he can feel himself growing warm, like kindling, smoldering in the heat of her motion.

“You do so well, Wayne,” she hisses, and her voice is a breeze fanning the flames. Duck glances up at her from within the disorienting smoke of their dual panting, heaving for air, and the possessive look on her face has him reeling. Minerva stoops over him with her brows drawn and her shoulders rounded; he can just see the tips of her pointed teeth through her lips where they’ve parted to breathe him in, and knows his skin has been riddled with marks that match their shape. 

She bends her fingers, suddenly, and Duck surprises them both by crying out.

If her actions were hungry before, they become absolutely ravaging in the echoes. She pulls his head back and presses her mouth to nearly every point of his body she can reach; her teeth run a fervent path down his stomach, and he can feel her back bending awkwardly as she twists to bite at his hipbones. Duck gives up trying to follow her madness, settling for a grip on her stabilizing arm and a fist knotted in the pillows above him. Her fingers drive into him with a steady weight; her hips press to the back of her own wrist, driving them deeper and sending Duck’s thighs upward with each thrust.

“Minerva, fuck, Minerva–” he catches himself pleading, forehead pressed to her arm and searing heat sending his brain into a spiral of incohesive thought. The size of her fingers fill him perfectly; the desperate pressure pulsing around his cock has him shaking. She dives down for him, stealing his breath and the last of his inhibition. “God, fuck, Minnie–”

Her hand stays pressed up inside him as Minerva leans back – Duck gasps for air in the interim, only to swear viciously as she straddles over one of his thighs and restarts her motion. The soft folds of her cunt rock against his leg, drenching the skin and adding her desperate cries to the noise Duck was already making. 

He loses track of the minutes spent chasing each other’s rhythm, but the embarrassment has long since died under their motion, and Duck is far too caught up in the feeling of Minerva fucking him and using him to fuck herself to go searching for it. He runs reverent, desperate paths over her shoulders and chest with clawed hands, tweaking her nipples harshly when he discovers the sound it prompts. She slouches forward with a loud, long moan and he hauls her in to kiss, sure that the slightest change will send him over the edge.

“Wa-ayne,” Minerva breathes, his name stuttering over her tongue, and blinks up at him with wild eyes. The sight alone is enough. He grasps her neck and pulls her as close as he can in the awkward position they’ve adopted, groaning her name as her hard work finally has him coming undone. 

Minerva seems all the more enthused by the warm liquid that splatters up against her ribs; she slows only to carefully remove her fingers from inside him, then braces herself with both arms and rolls her hips with ferocious effort against his leg. The slickness dripping down the inside of his thigh is hot, and the soft folds of Minerva’s cunt driving against him has even the most exhausted nerves in Duck’s system sparking.

“C’mere, honey,” he rasps, digging his fingers into the soft fat of her thighs, and draws her focus. The effort to lift his head is enormous, but Duck does so he can find the extra length in his arms to cup her ass and draw her in. “C’mere.”

It takes a moment for Minerva to gather what he’s saying, as lost for words and brain cells as they both seem to be. Their mutual panting gives way to spurts of laughter as Minerva struggles to rise on her trembling thighs and they fight to untangle their limbs without losing balance in the cushioning. Duck shimmies himself down as she maneuvers her way up, giving him one cautious pause and a breathless, “Are you sure?” before submitting to the determined downward tug he gives her waist.

If he weren’t entirely tingles from the navel down, Duck could easily lose himself again in the wail Minerva lets out as he buries his mouth against her. Her legs shudder violently and she nearly lifts away, startled by the stimulation, but Duck holds her fast, his arms straining and neck reaching up to better lap at her. She curls forward instead, her hands burying themselves in his hair and gripping hard at the sheets by his head, his name falling across her lips like a skipping record. Duck digs his fingertips into the most plush parts of her backside and runs wild patterns through her folds with his tongue like he’s desperate to drink up every drop of dampness she possesses, like he’s a desert made thirsty in her absence. 

Minerva keens and bucks forward, pressing down as Duck shove his tongue upward and inside of her, lamenting his lack of reach. There are places hidden away that he knows he can make her scream with, that he’s found on previous adventures with the determined drive of his fingers, but they’re too deep for his mouth to find. Instead Duck yanks her back enough to nip at her thighs, and then makes for the closest approximation she has to a clitoris, one of the parts of her that leans just this side of inhuman. 

“Wayne, pl– oh, please,” she whimpers, one hand reaching down to better spread herself for him. Duck glances up from under the weight of her hips and finds Minerva with one side of her lips sucked between her teeth, and a furious warmth washed across her dark cheekbones. It’s a side of her, desperate and uninhibited, that he only ever sees when he has her at the brink of an orgasm, and there’s yet to be a moment she’s revealed it that he hasn’t been overcome with adoration. Duck groans and changes his angle so he can properly flicker his tongue where best she likes, and holds her hard against him as the stimulation becomes too much.

She tries to pull away as the spasms hit. The bucking of her hips grows uncoordinated and shuddering, but Duck keeps Minerva held down, licking over her with long, broad strokes each time she gasps for breath. The muscles of her cunt quiver against his lips, and when he takes a daring lap at her entrance to hear her moan once more, finds a new wave of wetness and warmth to taste. 

“Wayne,” she breathes, turning giggly as he continues his work in spite of her shivering. Minerva tugs on his hair, and then his ears, fighting to distance her body from his now-ticklish tongue. “Wayne Newton, you sweet fool, let me rise.”

Duck grunts, wrapping his arms more firmly around her and tugging downward. He pulls his head back enough to find new oxygen and kiss at the salt and dampness of her soft inner thighs, but refuses to yield even as Minerva begins prodding at his eyebrows and stretching the parts of his face she can reach. The curves of her body rest against his like charcoal pulled fresh from the hearth, radiant with heat. 

“I will throw you off this bed, Wayne Newton, do not think I w-won’t–” she says, twitching and falling forward as he tastes her again, just for fun. Minerva peers down at him, and he tilts his head up to match her disgruntled expression with one of coyness. A grin flickers on her face, one she tries to fight down but fails to. She begins to push her hips backwards, sitting upon his fingers and pressing on his sternum in a playful facsimile of her actual strength. “Or I shall crush the breath from your lungs!”

He analyzes the compromising position he’s in, and snorts, mentally marking it low on the list of Worst Instances. His contentment must show on his face, because his partner’s expression softens and she reaches a hand down to brush back his bangs. 

“Was it all you imagined, beloved?” she asks, as Duck kisses her wrist. He considers the calm of his nerves and the heavy satisfaction settling into his limbs, the gratifying ache where her fingers had stretched him. He repositions the former champion of the mental rankings, that moment pressed face down into the mattress – somehow, Minerva reshaped the awkwardness he’d felt into a blazing confidence. He grunts an affirmative. “I can give only compliments from my own point of view. Perhaps we should use something larger next time? I trust you could take it.” 

Duck shoves his blushing face into her thigh and blows a loud raspberry, delighting in her screech of laughter. The trust he holds for his partner builds a bonfire in his heart, and as they tumble apart and find each other again, burns the entire mental list to ashes. 


End file.
